Here, Kitty, Kitty
by Tindomiel
Summary: Alone, Beruthiel sails into the Great Sea. But it's hard to keep your dignity when your supplies are running out... it brings a whole new light into the words 'pet food'.


A/N: I had this idea while reading Black Cat, White Cat by Helga3. The persona of 'nefarious' Queen Beruthiel has always fascinated me, ever since I caught glimpse of a fleeting mention of her name and her cats in Fellowship of the Ring. She is described in more detail in Unfinished Tales. This fic may turn out to be gruesome, I don't know. It's a vignette, possibly what some might call sick and twisted.  
Cat lovers, ye be warned.

Summary: Alone, abandoned on a ship, Beruthiel sails into the Great Sea. But it's hard to keep your pride when your food supply has run out, and all you have for company are ten cats. It brings a whole new meaning to the words 'pet' and 'food'.

"Here, Kitty Kitty"

By Tindomiel

It was day ten, and Beruthiel, the once queen of Gondor, was hungry.

If one of her detested handmaidens could see her now, what would they have said? What would they have said to see their former mistress is such degradation? Not much, probably. They'd have screamed, and reported her to her husband, or his counsellors. Of course, now they wouldn't have to.

Tarannon Falastur. How she hated that name.

Beruthiel was never fair, like the lords of Gondor liked. She was never kind. Compassion was a wholly alien thing to her. She knew from the start the politician-type of people would not like her. She could tell that she was barren. She would never bring an heir to the king – well, this was untrue: she was only barren of choice: she'd never deign to be his breeding mare. He'd never been a good enough reason to be.

She thought of him bitterly, as, with smooth, yet distorted strokes, she rubbed the edge of the sword with the grindstone. The sword, a present from her beloved husband, was broken in half, of which she'd kept the sharp hilt. She tried to escape at the harbour, but her swordsmanship was just not up to scratch. Not a single soul in Arda had volunteered to accompany her on this trek to doom, save her cats. She felt so lonely.

But she was tough. Like a pillar of stone in a desert attacked by sand. The lonely windswept deserts of the south: that was where she was headed.

A small mewing sound entered her ears, but she ignored it. Did it really think her foolish enough to fall for that? No, she knew. They were cats, and she was human. She could outwit it. They could run on this ship, but there was no place secure enough to hide. Seawater was all around; it would not choose that doom. She had made sure of it, smearing the blood around the perimeter of the deck, even soaking a corner of the main sail in gaunt red. It would stay away. She knew her cats well enough.

But they also knew her. Ironic, how once they had been her minions.

When she finished grinding, she wiped the blade on a piece of ragged fur- like fabric. It was black, and still a pinkish, fleshy texture on one side. She'd always been good with a knife. It was a good survival skill, taught by a long lost uncle who she never saw again. She wiped her greasy fingers on the black matted fur.

Foolish feline. Always the first to find information: but too eager for feeding. And she'd never even given it a name.

Beruthiel stood up. She was _really_ hungry now. Her stomach churned agressively. Her digestion wasn't too good, what with the total lack of fresh food on this boat, or anything properly cooked. Hopefully, she would perhaps land somewhere; assume a new identity. Her name had become too well known among Gondorrim. She could trade for food. Her jewellery, her barrels ... or her newly made fur-pelt, created out of nine pieces of black fur sewed together with stringy white sinew. To think she'd betrayed her last what could be called 'friends' for her own skin. Her skin ... for theirs. Oh, she laughed to tears with the bitter irony.

She checked the latest trap, a plate with some fish skins and leftovers, encircled by a thin wire. It had taken her two days to catch that one fish, but hopefully, the remains would bring more food. Above, a large net and a heavy knife swayed dangerously from the mast, waiting for perhaps some light-treading paw to disrupt the plate, releasing the mechanism ...

Hard luck. The contraption was still intact.

With a sigh, Beruthiel straightened up again. Oh yes, the first nine had made good meals, scanty, yes, and very poorly cooked – but White. That one was the smartest. Elusively dodging her traps. It had never trusted her wholly like the others. Even in Gondor. In a way, by following her instructions, it had controlled her. While the others had fallen to her hunger pangs, this one remained.

Oh well, might as well try:

She brushed her hands against her skirts and made chirping noises.

"Here, kitty kitty," She said, holding her knife blade behind her back.  



End file.
